


After Martin Forgot

by RogueVigilante



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Gen, Loss, Memory Loss, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:22:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22593214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueVigilante/pseuds/RogueVigilante
Summary: Based off and a continuation of the fantastic mini story by inkedinserendipity on Tumblr in which Martin willingly forgets Jon and everything that happened.Only he can't get The Magnus Institute out of his head.So when he gets a job there, Martin finds out he may have been there before.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 7
Kudos: 118





	After Martin Forgot

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A response to throwaninkpot](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/556867) by Inkedinserendipity. 



> So this is based off and a continuation of the fantastic mini story by inkedinserendipity on Tumblr. I highly recommend you check it out and give it a reblog. Also some of this might not make too much sense if you haven't read it as this is basically set one week afterwards.  
> Found at https://inkedinserendipity.tumblr.com/post/190395019281/the-venn-diagram-of-taz-and-tma-fans-is-me-and
> 
> It also was only supposed to be 1000 words...... whoops.

Martin wasn’t sure why he couldn’t get the Magnus Institute out of his head. He kept catching himself thinking about the place, although the thoughts he had eluded him almost the second he realised his mind had drifted again. It had been like that ever since he’d dropped in to give a statement nearly a week ago, despite the fact he couldn’t even remember what the statement was about. As far as he knew, he’d never had any experiences with the esoteric or supernatural.

Anyway, why would anything esoteric be interested in him? He was Martin Blackwood, the guy who had bounced around with a slightly fake resume, trying to get a job to help a mother who was too stubborn to see him. It had landed him a job in some small place as an assistant. Although Martin honestly couldn’t even remember the name of the place anymore. He’d worked there for years though, moving around internally until he ended up as an archival assistant for quite a while. After his mother had died, he’d left and taken a job as a general assistant somewhere else and thrown himself into his work while letting his remaining friends drift away, barely even remembering their names. He’d eventually quit to take a personal holiday in Scotland to ‘find himself again’. While the cows were nice, there was little else to stop him returning to his flat in London, where he’d sat around doing basically nothing for the last few months.

Martin guessed that was why he noticed, while out one day, that the employment page of some newspaper had blown over a letter box to reveal the Magnus Institute was looking for an Archival Assistant. He’d brushed the cobwebs in the corner off and taken the page home. A few days later he applied for the position, despite not even being sure why and certain he was completely underqualified.

Yet, almost a week after he applied, Martin had found himself once again in the office of Elias Bouchard, this time for an interview. His education was still faked, and he couldn’t even remember the names of the last few places he’d worked, but somehow everything went smoothly, as if Mr Bouchard knew exactly what questions to ask to make everything go perfectly. But that was impossible. Then it was over, and Martin found himself leaving with both a job and a feeling in his chest. The feeling was an odd one, like a familiar weight was settling over him once again, almost like it was watching him. But when you lied to get a job, that feeling was common enough, and this was far from the first time Martin had felt that way. So, he dismissed it.

His new job as an Archival Assistant was easy enough. He, along with another hire, a woman by the name of Fiona, was responsible for organising and tidying the archives while Elias continued to search for a new Head Archivist. The previous head archivist, a man called Jonathan Sims, had disappeared following an attack on the Institute a few months ago. Jonathan Sims had also left the place a complete mess. Despite this, Martin liked the job. He enjoyed sitting in the archives alone, slowly going through and organising box after box, finding statements that really should had been filed elsewhere. Fiona was fun to chat to, and the rest of the Institute staff seemed nice enough, although they all gave the archives a wide berth.

According to Sam, one of the researchers, this was because, “The archives are stranger than artefact storage, and that’s saying something. Take my advice and move to research instead, it’s way more fun and much safer. We always need people who are good at making tea or coffee.”

It took a fair bit of prodding to find out why everyone avoided the archives, but Martin found it in the end. Apparently, most of the previous Archival Assistants had vanished into thin air, although notably, one had died while another had been taken to hospital with unknown but severe injuries. Plus, rumour was that the head archivist, Jonathan Sims, wasn’t even human and stalked the corridors of the archive before he vanished. It had even become a popular ghost story among the staff was that he was still there, still watching and recording everyone on that old tape recorder he always carried. Martin had thanked them with a laugh and a shiver running down his back but ended up staying in the Archives.

It was two weeks after he started when Martin finds the hidey hole. It is tucked away in the back corner of the Archives so from the front it appears to just be a pile of boxes pushed up next to a shelf and against a wall. Except from the side, Martin sees that there is a gap between the shelves and the boxes big enough for a single person to sit in. That looks to be the intended purpose of this place, given the small thread-bare pillow that rests up against the back wall. The shelves themselves also contain a few smaller stacks of boxes. Looking around, Martin finds a few dust-covered books under the shelving. They all bare the marks of coming from the Magnus Institute’s Library, although they had been forgotten about a long time ago. In fact, everything in this small space is covered in a thick layer of dust and disuse. The only exceptions are the ground of the hidey hole and the pillow, which looked more recently used and covered in a thinner layer of dust.

Well, that and one of the boxes. Martin wasn’t even sure how he notices it to begin with but looking closely revealed that this particular box of has a thinner layer of dust on its lid and around its base, as if it had been opened more recently than the others. Opening it, Martin is almost disappointed. Inside is just a bunch of tapes. Most of them have the sequence of seven numbers he recognises as the statement classification system, written with a slightly scrawling but neat script. A few have odd names on them, things like Yonder and Draw State. To Martin they seem less like statement titles and more like song or book names, although his mind kept flicking to poetry titles. There was something almost familiar about them, but Martin can’t place it. One or two of the tapes were completely blank.

Picking one out at random, Martin also notices a small portable tape-player with a set of headphones wrapped around it. It was similar to the one Martin had owned when he was younger, but in much better condition. It also looks in working condition and wouldn’t destroy the tapes as they were being played, an issue Martin had continually had with his. He’d lost quite a few old recordings of radio plays that way. Grabbing it and putting the tape in, dust lightly falling with his disturbances, Martin sits down on the pillow, rewinds the tape to the beginning, leans against the wall and starts to listen.

_“Case 8163103. Statement of Albrecht von Closen, regarding a discovered tomb near his estate in the Black Forest. Original statement given as part of a letter to Jonah Magnus, March 31st, 1816. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.”_

‘So, this is from the previous head archivist then,’ Martin thinks to himself as he closes his eyes. The voice itself is soothing in a way, almost peaceful, although Martin can’t help but feel a great sense of longing and loss. It grips at his chest and threatens him with a wave of emotions that make no sense. A single tear escapes to roll down his cheek for no reason, splashing onto the pillow. He’d never met them. He’d never heard of this person before starting two weeks ago, so why is he reacting like this? Perhaps it was some form of knowledge that one day this person was going to disappear that was doing this? That answer makes the most sense to Martin, in fact it is the only answer that makes sense. The tape continues.

The tape was a recording of a statement from the Archives of the Magnus Institute. It would have been part of the work to digitise the Archives that Jonathan Sims had started. Martin had run across a few of these tapes before diligently filling them away without listening to them. The statement itself appears to be a letter written to the founder of the Institute about someone visiting a man called Wilhelm and a mausoleum he owned. It has just gotten to a part where the author is deliberating going back when a door in the background sounds and Jonathan Sims breaks off the transcript.

_“Martin.”_

Martin almost jumps at hearing his own name. Then he remembers that he wasn’t the only person in London that had the name Martin, and that Sam had been struggling to remember all the names of the old Archival Assistants. This Martin must have been one of them. He’d missed a bit of the conversation in his moments of shock, but he very quickly tunes back in.

_“Be staying in the Archives, at least have the decency to put some trousers on.”_

His own voice responded back.

_“Oh god, sorry, sorry! I didn’t think you...”_

Martin doesn’t even pay attention to the rest of the sentence, his mind still trying to figure out what is going on. It can’t be him on the tape. That he is certain on. But at the same time, it is his voice speaking back to him. He could be mistaken; he must be mistaken. The conversation continues between this ‘Martin’ and Jonathan in a mundane fashion, ending almost as suddenly as it started. At which point Jonathan Sims returns to the statement.

Martin rewinds the tape, listening to the conversation again and again, hoping to hear something to confirm that this isn’t him. There is nothing. Logically Martin knew that the person on this tape isn’t him, but there is still that feeling in the back of his head that wouldn’t let it go. All he needed is proof that they were different people. Martin grabbed another tape, rewinds it and puts it in.

This one doesn’t have a name on it. Playing it, Martin hears the almost distant sounds of muffled rumbling. There again is the voice that sounds like his but isn’t his, still muffled, commenting on how the place they were looking at is a complete mess. There was Jonathan Sims too, responding about looking through dozens of unmarked boxes, along with a third person too, a woman who’s voice he almost recognised. Almost. It sounds like there is something that they were all looking for. A gorilla skin? It doesn’t make too much sense to Martin, but that isn’t why he is listening. He is trying to find something, anything, to convince himself that he isn’t the Martin on the tape.

The conversation itself rambles as they found more and more things. Some eyeless dolls, a book that everyone (himself?) was scared about momentarily, and the destroyed gorilla skin. They are talking about things Martin doesn’t understand but feels like he should. It is the same feeling you get when you accidently tune out of a conversation, only to jump back in and have only the vaguest sense that you should know what’s going on.

There is a whoop of excitement from the Martin on the tape that did nothing to stop the spread of confusion and fear. It sounds like him. The voice, the way it spoke, the way the figure acts was exactly the way Martin himself would act if he had just accidently found a box of unarmed explosives. It was too close, too real, too similar.

He grabs another tape, this one a statement, rewinds and hits play almost frantically.

_“Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute recording statement number 0092008. Statement of Adonis Biros, given August 20th, 2009. Statement begins.”_

Martin Blackwood. It must be a coincidence. It must be someone with the same name as him. It can’t have been him. It wasn’t him. Martin was a common enough name, same with Blackwood. Surely he isn’t the only Martin Blackwood in London. Despite this, Martin isn’t so sure that it’s not him anymore. Rewinding it, he plays the first sentence again. Nothing changes, his own voice and name speaking back at him. He rewinds it again and again, once again hoping it changes, hoping he is hearing everything wrong. He’s not, and that doubt and worry in his mind grows, pushing against barriers that Martin doesn’t even know exist. Again and again he listens, for how long he doesn’t know.

“All I need is proof this isn’t me,” Martin mutters to himself, breaking the cycle he had unfortunately stuck himself in, and reaches for another tape.

This one has a worded name, titled Streets. Playing it, Martin hears his own voice again.

_“Streets. By Martin K. Blackwood. The streets are hard in London. Paved in old secrets, the hot smell after the rains. The threads of people…”_

Martin drops the tape player, sending it clattering under the shelf and letting the headphones fall from his ears as he stands up and takes a step back. The name Streets instantly familiar to him. This is his poem. He wrote it years ago and lost the paper back in his apartment. So how is it here? How is he speaking it and recording it into a tape recorder, leaving the tape in an unmarked box at the back of the Magnus Archives? He’s never even owned a tape recorder.

On top of that there is the introduction of Martin K. Blackwood. Not many people knew his middle name starts with K. But if they had his poems, then that small fact must have been an easy thing to grab. Glancing at the box reveals the familiarity of those written names. They are all names of his poems. It occurs to him that this may be some elaborate practical joke, a mini hazing ritual for new Archival Assistants where you find yourself in the Archives. He’s not sure about this, although he likes the alternatives less.

Shaking slightly, Martin retrieves the tape player. It’s still going, his voice working through the motions of the poem. It’s definitely his poem, there’s no doubt about that. In fact, Martin doesn’t even want to think about it anymore, he wants to go back to the time before he found this strange unmarked box of tapes. But it’s too late now. He picks another tape, hoping that this one has answers, or at least someone he can ask. The label indicates it to be Statements 0170208 A-F.

_“Statement of Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London, Regarding the upcoming, um… operation. 2nd August 2017. Recording taken direct from subject.”_

It appears to be a collection of statements, taken from a collection of different people as they prepare to blow up a house of wax. Martin guesses this is where the explosives from earlier ended up. What they were talking about would have been interesting to Martin, if he wasn’t so freaked out by the mounting suspicion that he was the one on the tapes. It was something to do with an apocalypse, although from the sounds of it, the Martin on the tape and someone called Melanie were staying behind to take on Elias. That was new? Every interaction Martin had had with the Head of the Magnus Institute had been normal. It must have been a different one. On top of that, this who idea of a mission seems like something you wouldn’t assign to an Archivist and his assistants.

Then again, Martin’s mind wasn’t particularly on the statement itself. He’d have to listen to that one again later, find out what had happened as it seems important somehow. Instead he was thinking of the names given by the other people involved in the statements. Basira Hussain, Melanie King and Tim Stoker. One of them must have the answers he needs. Martin returns the tape player and the tape to the box. His head hurt enough for today and he needs answers before he listens to any others. Perhaps the answers he needs are in that box, but something, instinct maybe, is pushing him to investigate the names instead. That way he could also ask questions.

Out of the three names Martin had gathered, all used to be members of the Archival Assistant staff. Tim Stoker was dead and Basira Hussain is nearly untrackable. That left Melanie King, who has an apartment just outside of London. Martin initially intended to try and stop by sometime on the weekend, except upon leaving the Magnus Institute that evening, he found himself heading towards the station that would take him to her place.

From the outside, her place looks normal. A simple green door with a little ghost door knocker. Before nerves overtook him, he banged on the door. Moments later, the door opens revealing a taller woman. She looks at Martin quizzically for a moment before speaking.

“It’s Martin, right? You’re not going to go vanishing on me again?”

There was a slight tone of humour to her voice, as she clearly recognises him from somewhere. Except Martin was certain he’d never met her before. She didn’t sound like the voice on the recording, but Martin had to ask anyway.

“Are you Melanie King?”

“No?” She responds slowly, as if the answer to that question was something Martin should already know. “I’m Georgie. Why are you looking for Melanie?”

“I just want to talk to her,” he responds.

“Melanie’s just inside if you’d like me to get her.”

“No need. I’m coming,” a voice calls from inside the house. This one sounds like the voice from the tapes.

A second woman rounds the corner to the hallway. The first thing Martin notices about her was the cloth across her face. It covered her eyes with black fabric and small yellow smiley faces. Martin remembers that one of the old assistants had sustained some form of injury, perhaps it was Melanie. But that isn’t why he’s here.

“Melanie King?” He asks again, this time directed at the blindfolded woman.

“Martin? It sounds like you,” She responds with a small smile. “It might have been a few months, but don’t tell me I’ve changed that much.”

She spoke like they should know each other, and Martin feels like he should. It is a similar feeling to the one he had had when he first heard the voice of Jonathan Sims, although must less severe.

“I need your help,” he asks.

With those words, Georgie’s stance changes from relaxed to defensive. Melanie’s face becomes wary, focusing in Martin’s direction as she moves forward slightly. It takes a few moments for her to respond as she almost considers her words carefully.

“It’s like I told Jon, I’m here as a friend, but that’s all. I don’t care if Elias is ending the world again, I got out and there is no way I’m going back.”

Martin didn’t know what he was expecting, but it definitely isn’t this. Elias ended the world? He had ignored the part in the tape where there may have been more to what was going on with Elias and the Magnus Institute, but hearing it again was a shock. Martin almost forgets why he came here today. Almost.

“End the world again?” He stutters out before catching himself.

The pause after his words went on far too long. There was that strange feeling in Martin’s mind again, where he just accepted what was being said as if he’d already know it. It made sense somehow, but Martin didn’t know why. Then he caught the look on both their faces was that same confusion. Like his internal struggle and acceptance is unexpected, not because it was new but because he should already know this.

“It’s not that,” he continues quickly. “It’s just you used to work in the Magnus Institute Archives?”

“Yes…”

There is suspicion in her voice now and Martin is unsure if she is humouring him or not.

“I started a job there about two weeks ago,” he blabs, words moving quicker than he can think of them. “In the Archives, that is. Only I found something. A collection of tapes that I think I’m in. The person on them has my name, Martin Blackwood, and sounds exactly like me. Except making a statement there last month was the first time I’ve been to the Magnus Institute. I know it can’t be me, but I think it is. I don’t know what’s going on.”

Martin pauses for breath, calming himself down from the slight panic he had built himself into. Saying it out loud suddenly made the whole situation seem ridiculous. It had to have been a joke or some strange, weird coincidence. But those two women, Georgie and Melanie, act like they all know each other. There is something going on that involved him, it was the only thing that made sense anymore.

“I figured that since you used to work there, you might have some clue.”

Melanie moves up to Georgie and places her hand on her shoulder. Well, waves her hand in the air for a second before Georgie carefully moves it towards her. There is an unspoken emotion in the air, a silent question they were asking each other. All Martin can do is wait now, hoping that the only logical explanation he can think of is wrong. Hoping that they don’t think he’s mad.

“It looks like him, although we didn’t meet for very long before you vanished on me.”

The you is clearly directed at Martin. Melanie takes a small breath; her words a combination of confusion and worry.

“Martin, we worked together in the archives. I don’t know how to say this, but you’ve worked at the Magnus Institute for years.”

“What?”

Yet it somehow it all makes sense to Martin. The tapes with his voice. Her confusion over his questions. The way she didn’t quite act like a friend, but she clearly knew him. This was all too much and too real. Sam was right, the Archives are a strange place and he should have gone somewhere else when he’d had the chance. But it was too late for that. Right now, Martin would have to accept the truth behind the words she said. He must have worked for the Magnus Institute once, even if he couldn’t remember. It was either that or some strange body swapping look-a-like, which was even more impossible than the current situation.

Looking back on the last few years of his life, it almost seems to fit. The fact he still couldn’t remember the name of his previous employment. Even in the last few weeks at the Institute, Martin had almost been running on autopilot, like he knew where he was going, where things were stored. He hadn’t even really had a proper tour, yet he already knew where everything was. Then there was the statement he gave. Martin didn’t know what brought it up in his mind, but Elias’s face was suddenly in his head. There was an almost honeyed and victorious smile as he looked down at Martin with the words,

_“Better to forget.”_

Melanie’s voice interrupted his internal acceptance of this fact.

“It’s the truth. We never really got along but we worked together for a bit.”

“But I… I don’t remember any of it,” he responds slowly.

Elias’s face is still in his head, the venomous honeyed words. He can see the smile, feel the confusion building into a headache, his mind struggling against knowledge he feels he should know. The empty holes in his mind, filled with nothing more than a low fog.

“Nothing?”

Martin shakes his head before realising that she is probably blind and can’t see his response. It doesn’t matter though, as she was still speaking to him, just having a pause between her words.

“Jonathan Sims?”

Unlike everything else, there is a careful consideration on that name in particular. It obviously had more meaning to either her or Martin that he currently knew. That didn’t stop the knot in his chest tightened with the name.

“He was the old Head Archivist, right? The one who disappeared.”

That was definitely the wrong response. Melanie’s face fell into a combination of expected sadness, like she knew what he was going to say but had hoped otherwise. Strangely, it reminds Martin of the face people make at funerals. The one when they say that they are sorry for your loss. Whoever this Jonathan Sims was, they clearly meant something to Martin, although he is unsure what. Melanie gestures inside. It was only then Martin realises that he is still standing on the doormat.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Georgie comments, seeing the movement and planting a small kiss on Melanie’s cheek before heading back into the apartment.

“I think you’d better come inside,” Melanie says, ushering Martin inside.

In a way though, he almost doesn’t want to find out. There is something in his mind pushing him to turn around, to walk home, to push the boxes of the hidey-hole against the shelves, to ignore everything that has happened. He can walk away, it’s not too late. Everything that has happened today would simply fade into a distant dream. But there is something else, the longing and the emotions that make no sense, the whole mystery of everything. There is something wrong with his memories, but for a moment he isn’t sure if he wants to go down this rabbit hole.

Martin makes his decision. He follows Melanie inside. 

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably point out about the Hidey-Hole. Basira created it back when she first started at the Institute.  
> Jon started using it during season 4, and the box of tapes were all the happier recordings with Martin in them.
> 
> (also the Tumblr version https://treacherous-vigilante.tumblr.com/post/190689421534/the-venn-diagram-of-taz-and-tma-fans-is-me-and)
> 
> (Edit as of 24/4/2020: So Martin doesn't have a middle name...... Whoops)


End file.
